Page 59 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

And still, I sit there, heart restless, the memory of her laugh lingering long after the warmth of her hand has faded from mine.

Aria

Ilieonthebed, my back pressed against the rough linen, staring up at the low ceiling. The washbasin in the corner still drips, each plunk of water echoing in the quiet room. We’ve both scrubbed off the grime of travel—my hair is damp against my neck, and Roan’s smells faintly of cheap soap. That mundane detail makes everything feel strangely ordinary, except it’s anything but.

She’s still in the chair, arms folded across her chest, posture stiff and unmoving—like she’s expecting the door to blow open at any moment. Like she’s ready to throw herself between me and whatever comes through it.

Her eyes keep drifting to me, even when she thinks I’m not looking.

It’s been nearly an hour since our dance, and I haven’t slept a moment. Not with the echo of her hands on my waist still lingering. Not with the way she looked at me—like I was something delicate and dangerous all at once.

I shift beneath the blankets, the mattress creaking softly under me. The room is dim, lit only by the dying glow of a single candle. Shadows pool in the corners like silent watchers.

“…Roan,” I whisper.

She grunts—a low, tired sound—but it tells me she’s awake. Still on guard. Stillwatching.

“You don’t have to keep watch,” I say, my voice barely above the hush of the wind against the window. “We’re in an inn. The door’s locked.”

She exhales through her nose, a sound halfway between a huff and a laugh. “You think your clan cares about locked doors?”

My throat tightens. Because she’s not wrong.

I remember every wall they’ve broken through, every fortress that failed to stop them. But something about tonight—the normalcy of a modest room, the presence of a bed we can actually rest in—makes me yearn to pretend, just for a few hours, that I’m not being hunted.

“They might not,” I admit, “but we need sleep.Youneed sleep.”

“I can manage a few hours on the chair. I’ve done it before.”

In the lantern’s glow, I can see the lines of fatigue etched at her brow, the way her shoulders still carry the tension of the day’s skirmish. My chest tightens. I don’t want her hunched up by the door, half-dozing and half-worrying whether enforcers will appear or not.

“Roan,” I say, voice soft yet firm. “Come share the bed with me.”

A flicker of something—surprise, maybe—crosses her face. She hesitates, eyes darting to the single mattress. “I—”

I tug at the blanket, offering a few more inches of space. My heart beats so loud I’m sure she can hear it.

“There’s enough room for both of us,” I say, hoping I sound braver than I feel. “And if anything happens, we’ll know. We’ll wake up.”

Her throat works as she swallows. She looks torn between stubbornness and the obvious fact that she’s bone-tired. Finally, with a resigned sigh, she steps away from the window, unlacing her boots as if she might change her mind at any second.

“Fine. But if anything so much as creaks, I’m up,” she grumbles.

My lips twitch, and I quickly agree, “Deal.”

I turn my eyes to the ceiling, face warm, acutely aware of how close we’re about to be. The bed dips under her weight as she sits on the edge. She shifts awkwardly, stretches one arm, and then slowly lies back. The distance between us is small—far too small for my racing heartbeat.

A tense silence settles. I can sense every breath she takes, the faint rustle of fabric as she adjusts the blanket. My shoulder barely brushes hers, a spot of heat that sends a shiver down my spine.

“You okay?” she asks, voice low.

I nod, belatedly realizing she might not see it in the dim light. “Yes,” I manage, clearing my throat.

Roan exhales something like a laugh, but there’s an edge of nerves to it. “Good.”

I’m not sure how much time passes between us. Seconds, minutes, hours. The world outside carries on, oblivious to the way my pulse pounds in my ears, to the way my skin feels too warm under the blankets.

Roan shifts beside me, the mattress dipping slightly with the movement. Neither of us has spoken since we settled in, but sleep still feels far away.

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